Spiked Roses: The Complete Top Shelf Series

by Alta Hensley

He chuckled. “Not quite.”

  “How did you find a house out here in the middle of nowhere?”

  “It used to be an old fishing house that I built onto and turned into my home. I like the security of it.”

  “Security?”

  “The only way you can get to my house is by boat. I can hear the boats coming far better than I could hear a car or somebody on foot. No surprise attacks that way.” He smiled. “And the gators are my free security.”

  “I thought you were the one who did the killing. Why are you worried about being attacked?”

  “The need for revenge is one of the most powerful emotions one can possess. Vengeance places a huge bounty on my head. Larger than any bounty I’ve ever collected for assassinating someone.”

  “Do you have a lot of enemies?”

  He nodded slowly. “I would say that is a fair assumption.”

  “And they all want you dead?” The thought of someone killing Harley made my heart skip. I had never considered the fact that his life was ever in danger.

  “At the very least,” he answered with that roguish smile I had seen earlier in the night. “Death would be too merciful. They would want me to pay first. Pay in ways that would have me eventually begging to be killed.”

  “Jesus,” I barely said as my mouth suddenly felt dry. “I had no idea. Does that scare you?”

  He looked at me with the most serious expression I had yet to see on his face.

  “There are things that scare me. But death is not one of them. I’ve come to terms with the fact that my day will come. Being afraid of when that day arrives, does me no good. It only weakens me. In my profession, weakness is not an option.”

  “Your profession. Why?” Maybe I was being too bold, but it seemed like it was okay to ask. Hopefully I hadn’t misjudged, but something in my gut told me that Harley would actually answer that question.

  “Because the first time I pulled the trigger of the gun and stole the life from someone else, I opened the door of Hell and walked through. Once you step over that threshold, there is no way to exit. You are there. You have no choice from that point on to take it back. So rather than standing by the door like so many others have done and allow darkness to consume you, I decided to charge all the way in. I don’t do anything half-assed, I guess you could say. I’m a perfectionist. So if I do something, I am going to do everything I can to be the best.”

  “Did everyone you kill deserve it? Were they all bad people?”

  He glanced at me again for a moment. Not as long as the times before, but I could see a look of sorrow on his face when he did. It was for the briefest second, but I was positive that I had seen it.

  “Does anyone deserve to be killed?”

  “Well… I mean…” I didn’t mean it like that, or did I? “Bad people. Like people who kill people.”

  “Like me. I’m the bad guy in this story. Do you think I deserve to be killed?”

  “Maybe you do,” I answered honestly.

  Harley didn’t look at me, nor appear insulted by my words. He simply nodded slowly. “Maybe I do.”

  “Is it something you would ever consider not doing anymore? Stop being an assassin? I mean… you own Spiked Roses, and it doesn’t seem like money is an issue.” I didn’t really know that Harley was a billionaire like the rest since he definitely never flaunted that fact, but I also knew that all the members were, or at least were on their way to that level. “Only wealthy men are part of the club right?”

  “It’s no longer about the money now. That’s true,” he said as he decelerated the boat even slower than he was already going. “But being a hired killer isn’t something you can just walk away from. I can’t wake up one morning and simply say I quit.”

  “Why not?”

  “I told you. I already crossed the threshold into Hell. No turning back. I don’t get to retire with a nice little pension and a retirement home in Florida. I said goodbye to that possibility of an outcome a long time ago.”

  “So what is your outcome then?”

  “I retire when I’m buried six feet under.”

  “That’s an awfully morbid future.”

  He smirked with a half laugh. “Trust me. Morbid ending is fitting for the morbid past I’ve also had.”

  “Then why did you become a managing member of Spiked Roses?”

  “It seemed fun. Different, and I needed something different at the time. It’s not my gig to be a businessman, but the others are, so I felt comfortable investing. I’ve never felt as if I truly belonged to anything before or anyone. This was my first opportunity to connect with something other than isolation. It felt right. And when I heard the history of the location… I was hooked.”

  “Oh, the serial killer who massacred all those women and buried all the bodies with rose petals?”

  I remembered the story from when I was hired. As part of the hiring orientation, all the girls were told the name of the club came from the building’s gruesome past. A serial killer in 1892 had killed 22 women with a spike through the heart and then buried them in a shallow grave in a black bag covered in rose petals to disguise the odor of their rotting corpses. It was the type of tale to give you nightmares, and I was always scared to go down to the cellar to collect bottles of wine or booze because I was terrified I would run into a ghost. It smelled haunted down there. I swore I could smell death. Tennessee thought I was just trying to get out of work when I would practically beg for him to do it for me, but I really was scared of going down the long dark stairway.

  “Why did you decide to work at Spiked Roses?”

  “I had moved into Marie St. Claire’s Boarding House, and another woman who lived there told me about the place. It’s funny because almost every young woman who moves to Marie’s place with stars in their eyes of a better life in New Orleans seems to get a job at the club. But I had heard about it and how much money you could make. I didn’t apply right off the bat though. I really thought I had a chance of making it as a musician as so many other fools do. But I soon realized that making money for tips was not going to put a roof over my head no matter how cheap Marie’s boarding house was. And when I saw that other women were making more money in a night than I could scrape together in a month, I knew Spiked Roses was calling my name.”

  “A musician?” Harley asked as he looked at me with raised eyebrows. “A singer?”

  “Oh, God no,” I said shaking my head and giggling. “Not even close. I play the guitar. Classical Spanish guitar is my training and what I do best.”

  “Classical Spanish? I’m not sure I know what that is. Will you play it for me sometime?”

  I shrugged my shoulders, and wished I hadn’t revealed that side of me to him. I hadn’t exactly decided to give up playing, but I had pushed the passion aside. “I haven’t played in a long time.”

  He pointed to a house in the distance. “There it is.”

  I peered through the darkness at a long dock that led to a two-story house that reminded me of so many historical houses in the Garden District of NOLA, though Harley’s house was on thick stilts to keep the foundation high off the swampy ground, much like other houses in the bayou. It was a far cry from all the shacks we had passed and what I had envisioned when you think of a house in the swamp. The iron railing that ran along the second story, large windows and green shutters screamed classic Cajun charm. Immense white columns lined the bottom half of the house with a wrap around front porch that was accentuated by hanging ferns and offered oversized rocking chairs to sit in and look out over the yard. There was even a three tiered fountain right before you reached the porch stairs required to reach the raised house. I appreciated the fact that Harley had rebuilt the shack but held on to the heritage of its surroundings. You could see he had taken the time to make it not only a southern palace, but a safe compound to fight off the vicious Louisiana storms that often ravaged the area when Mother Nature unleashed her wrath. It was lit from the inside, as well as had outside garden lights illuminating
the grounds. It was like a beacon, welcoming us. Large swampy trees flanked each side, but the house dominated in presence. Much like its owner.

  “Wow,” I said, surprised to see Harley lived in such a large house, and something so grand and elegant. “It’s lovely. Not what I pictured in my head at all.”

  “Did you expect to see a shack?” His face lit up with pride as he motored slowly toward his personal dock. There were two other boats of similar style to the one we were on tied to the dock as well. I guess he had his choice between average modes of transportation and average modes of transportation.

  “No, but wow. You built this?”

  He nodded. “I had help. Construction workers and shit, but yeah. This was my labor of love.”

  Harley pulled the boat to the side of the dock, shut off the ignition, and quickly jumped out, tying it off. He then reached down to assist me out of the boat. Once again, as I took his hand, we were touching—connecting. Such a simple touch and yet my insides burst into a full inferno of sensations.

  Our trip had been interesting. I had learned so much about Harley Crow. Much more than I had known before. But now the man was even more of a mystery. He was a closed book, and I desperately wanted to read every torn and bent page.

  “Welcome to my home,” he said as he placed his hand on my lower back and guided me toward the house with my bag packed for the weekend slung over his shoulder.

  “Thank you,” I said softly.

  One step, two. Two step, three. It had begun.

  I was about to cross the threshold of Harley Crow’s kingdom. What that meant… I would soon find out.

  Chapter Six

  Marlowe

  I remembered when I was a little girl and an older cousin of mine tried to force me to go with her into a fun house at a local carnival. I didn’t want to. I was terrified. The only way to enter was through a gigantic clown’s mouth that had demonic eyes. My cousin dragged me kicking and screaming, and I’d truly thought I would die if I entered. I’d had no idea what was inside, but it certainly wasn’t going to be fun like it claimed. I’d actually puked. That is what finally stopped my cousin in her tracks. I had gotten so frightened, and the sense of dread had been so powerful in my gut, that I had vomited all over her brand new leather boots.

  My stomach felt like that now. I don’t know if it was necessarily dread this time, but I was stepping into the unknown, and the idea of what could come did terrify me. It wasn’t so much the thought of sexual play that had me on edge. For some reason, the idea of that actually excited me more than anything. It was more about how Harley and I would get to the point of actually having the play and potential sex. How? Did we keep talking like we had on the boat? Do we just cut to the chase and get busy? But even then, who makes that step? It was awkward in a way. Like a first date. A really fucked up first date.

  The entryway of the house was large, but not overwhelming. There wasn’t a big foyer like most houses of this style had. The entire inside of the house was set up more like a large studio you would find in Manhattan. The entry and living room were combined into one huge open floor plan. It was massive, made to look even larger with the lack of walls breaking the space into tiny rooms. The staircase to go upstairs was to the left, but you barely noticed it was there. The stairs were not the focus of the house. What was the focus the minute you walked in was that the entire back wall of the room was all glass. It looked out onto a large pool, a tiny cottage-style pool house and the expanse of swamp behind it. Large trees were visible for as far as the eye could see. It almost made you feel as if you were standing outside even though you were in the living area of the house.

  The furniture was masculine. Brown and burgundy leather chairs that looked worn and comfy beckoned one to curl up in them with a good book. There was also a large tan leather couch that was shaped like a U with tables and Tiffany lamps on each end. Large oriental rugs covered the gray tiled floor. Every bit of furniture was modern yet classic, classy but comfortable. Bookshelves from floor to ceiling were on the right side of the room, surrounding a fireplace that appeared like it had been stolen from an old southern plantation home. The antique charm of the hearth mixed with the modern architecture of the house blended perfectly. And the art… the art on the walls was what had me standing in place, tongue-tied and in awe. Large framed paintings of what appeared to be demons, spirits, angels and other gothic elements took up every ounce of wall space. They didn’t appear religious in nature, but simply magnificent pieces of work that were beautiful. I couldn’t help but feel like staring into the intricacies of the art would be like looking into the small details of Harley Crow’s soul.

  My gawking at his house came to a stop when Harley bent down and removed his shoes by the door. There was a small rug next to the coat closet, that I assumed he wanted guests to place their shoes on. I waited until he removed his first shoe and placed it on the rug just to be sure, and then I kicked off my black pumps and placed them as nicely as I could next to his. Something told me that Harley would appreciate the effort. Taking another peek at his house, I also noticed it was immaculate. So clean in every nook and cranny. Nothing seemed out of place. Nothing scattered, no mail piled up on a table anywhere, and no useless knick-knacks filling up space. Everything in the house seemed to have a purpose.

  “Clean freak?” I teased.

  “Yes,” he said as he placed his second shoe nicely beside his first. He had no shame in the way he answered me. It was matter of fact, and he clearly accepted and owned that simple truth about himself.

  “Oh good, you’re back,” came a female’s voice.

  I turned to see a young woman who appeared to be in her early twenties entering the room through an archway that was lined with worn brick. She had auburn hair that rested on her shoulders, tiny in frame—almost childlike, and I instantly hated her. Okay, maybe not hated her, but definitely was jealous of her. She was the pure and innocent type of pretty that had grown men eating out of her palm. She was barefoot and wearing nothing more than a white tank top with her perky breasts and nipples pressing against the material on display, and cut off jean shorts. Casual and stunning. Bitch.

  “I was going to turn out all the lights and lock up for the night,” she continued as she walked up to where we stood. As she got closer, I could see she had freckles. Of course she had freckles just to add to her cute factor. She stopped and looked at me with a warm smile and extended her hand. “I’m Layla. Welcome. I know it’s quite the trip getting out here, but it definitely is worth it once you arrive.”

  I wasn’t sure why she was welcoming me. Did she live here? Was this her home? She definitely gave off the vibe that she lived here, and she didn’t appear like she was a servant or anything.

  Not wanting Harley to think I was rude, I extended my hand and shook hers. “I’m Marlowe. Thank you.”

  “The house should always stay locked, Layla,” Harley chastised which was rewarded with an eye roll of Layla’s long-lashed green eyes. “I mean it. You know better than that, young lady.”

  Layla smirked as she looked back at me. “I hope you know what you are getting yourself into with this man,” she said playfully. “He can be an overbearing, overprotective ass sometimes.” She walked up to Harley and stood on tiptoe as she kissed his cheek. “I’m off to bed. You guys have a good night.”

  Harley patted the side of her arm. “Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight,” I said as well as I watched her open the sliding glass door and followed her movements as she descended the stairs and walked toward the small cottage by the pool.

  “That’s Layla,” Harley said as he dropped my bag by a chair and walked toward a wet bar that had decanter sets filled to the rim with different colored booze. He stood behind the rich wood of the bar, grabbed two glasses, and looked up at me. “What can I get you to drink?”

  I wasn’t really a hard liquor type of gal, and I much preferred wine, but I didn’t want him opening a bottle special for just me. “Whatever you a
re having.” I felt silly standing in the same place I had been since entering the house, so I took a few steps closer to him and the bar.

  “Vodka? By itself? Are you sure?” His eyebrow rose, and he watched me in only the way that this man had the power to do.

  It sounded awful. Who would drink vodka all by itself? It would burn all the way down my esophagus and then sizzle in my belly like acid.

  He must have been able to read my feelings on my face because he asked, “Do you like wine? Cabernet? I have a great bottle I could open for you.”

  Oh thank fucking God. I wouldn’t have to sip on a drink I hated all while pretending I enjoyed the flavor.

  “Yes, please. That sounds perfect.”

  I really did need a drink to settle my nerves, and red wine was my drink of choice.

  He pulled out a bottle from underneath the bar and began opening it with a regular corkscrew. Nothing fancy or electric to ease in the opening. Old school. I liked it.

  “Who is Layla?” I asked, trying not to sound jealous even though I really was. I hadn’t known that Harley had a woman living with him, and it pissed me off now that I did.

  He smiled as he poured the wine into a lovely glass that had ivy etched into the crystal. “You’ll be fucking her tonight. I like two women in my bed at all times.” He extended the glass of wine to me with an even larger smile.

  I couldn’t take the glass in fear that I would drop it. “Wait. What? I… we didn’t discuss… I don’t…”

  “Oh yes. I plan on whipping one of you while the other sucks me off. And I expect to watch you both lick each other’s pussies while I recover enough to do it all over again.”

  What the hell? I hadn’t even considered that another player would be involved, and I hated the idea. I didn’t swing that way, and I didn’t want to fucking share Harley with anyone. He was mine! Well, at least for the weekend. But fuck. I hadn’t listed this as one of my hard limits. Fuck.

  “I umm… I don’t really…”